


College!AU Anon Asked For

by Ealasaid



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff and Crack, Gen, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23619409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid
Summary: Will is an over-worked and over-stressed grad student in his fourth year.  Tom is a frat boy in his second year who still hasn't quite figured out how to survive uni.
Relationships: Joseph Blake & Tom Blake, Tom Blake & William Schofield
Comments: 37
Kudos: 37





	1. Blake, No

“Coffee, please,” Will says to the girl behind the counter.

He counts out the coins as she pours him a cup. She looks just as bleary as he does -- but that’s what being the all-night student center coffee barista does to a girl, Will supposes. Lauri knows him well at this point -- he has the terrible habit of coming to campus and pulling all-nighters in the library on a weekly basis. Getting terrible student center coffee is part of the experience.

Lauri has nothing to say to him tonight except a tired “good luck” and quiet counting out of change. Will takes the cup and sips it with gratitude; the scalding heat helps wake him up just as much as the caffeine. 

As he leaves the tiny student snack shop and heads for the library, Will’s thoughts turn to his coursework. He has two papers due in the next few days -- both are on the theoretical interpretations of some works by Rachmaninoff. And there is that composition he has due. If he knocks out the shorter paper, it will help him with the longer one; they’re for different classes after all, so he can probably rework it into something suitable. As for the composition . . . 

Lost in thought, Will does not notice the dark shape on the ground half in and half out of a bush until he trips over it. He swears loudly -- his coffee spills all over him. The shape grunts and wiggles.

Will pulls out his phone and wakes the screen. In the dim light, he sees that it is a student. A man -- no, more like a boy; he can’t possibly be past his second year from the traces of baby fat that still cling to his face. The boy blinks up at him and smiles crookedly, still lying on the ground.

“Good evening,” he slurs politely. “So sorry about the tripping thing. I don’t suppose you’ve fallen for me, have you?”

Will stares. He is absolutely wasted, this kid. “D’you need any help?” he settles for asking.

The boy frowns and shakes his head enthusiastically. “Oh no. No, I was just getting up,” he says, and attempts to do just that. He makes it halfway before he stops and sinks back down. “Er,” he says. “Actually, it might be better just to lie here.”

Will looks at his half-full cup and sighs. He chugs it all in one hot slug and squashes the cup down until it’ll fit into his pocket. He holds out a hand for the boy, who looks at it with bemused surprise. “Come on,” Will says. “Let’s get you home.”

“Don’t remember where that is, honestly,” the kid admits. 

“Well then, we’ll find someone who does,” Will says practically. “But lying in a bush is not the best option at this time.”

The boy considers this with grave seriousness. “This is true,” he says ponderously, and takes Will’s hand. Will hauls him up. Once on his feet, the kid immediately starts to sink back down to meet the ground. Will quickly wraps an arm around the kid’s ribs and encourages him to throw an arm over Will’s shoulders. It’s awkward -- the boy is several inches shorter than Will, and it makes for a tricky shuffle.

“So what’s your name?” Will asks, trying to keep the kid semi-lucid. The last thing Will needs is to be seen dragging an unconscious 19-year-old across campus -- that would raise some pretty serious questions. 

“‘M Blake,” the boy says. “I’m a second year. I just transferred from another uni.”

“Oh really? What do you study?” 

Blake stumbles along with Will as they start moving. Will adjusts his stride so that it’s not quite so long, but it doesn’t seem to help much. Blake has simply had far too much to drink. “Uh,” Blake says after a long moment. “You know, I don’t recall at the moment.”

“Fair enough,” Will says. He’s not really in a position to judge, himself; he distinctly recalls a few wild nights his second year as well. “Do you remember why you were outside the student center?”

“No?” Blake hazards. He staggers suddenly -- that’s the only warning Will has before Blake bends over and vomits all over the ground, Will’s shoes included. If Will were in a position to do it, he would quietly like to go back in time and smack his past self for getting involved, but  _ oh well. _

“Oh,” says Blake. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. Here -- let me --”

Fortunately Will has the presence of mind to haul Blake up instead of let him attempt to start cleaning up the mess. “Don’t mind that at the moment,” Will says. “You’ve got it all out now, yeah?”

Blake, now weaker than a kitten, nods dazedly. “Yeah, I think so,” he says. And bends over and heaves again.

“Right,” Will says after a long moment.

There’s a beat of quiet from Blake. “Okay,” he says, voice stronger.  _ “Now _ I think I’m good.”

“Right,” Will says again. He rubs at the bridge of his nose with his free hand. The pressure helps to stave off the headache he feels brewing. This kid is too blitzed to do anything at the moment; Will needs to get him home and then get to work.

“Do you have a phone?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Blake says. He starts patting his pockets with both hands, leaving Will to temporarily hold the boy upright by sheer force of personality and stubbornness. “Hang on, it’s right -- here --”

It is also dead. Blake’s face is a picture of bewildered dismay.

“All right,” Will says, sensing his life collapsing into a great black hole. Looks like he’s not going to get any of this work done tonight, then. “Tell you what. I’ll take you to my place. You sleep off this state you’re in, and in the morning, we get you where you’re supposed to be.”

Blake rolls his head around until he is able to look Will in the face. He beams. “You are so wonderful,” he says.

“You’re an idiot,” Will says in reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know who needed ridiculous shit? I needed ridiculous shit. This AU won't stop bugging me. There is literally no accuracy here because I am basing this all on memories of my Californian university experience but everyone is still British because why not.
> 
> This fic will be updated periodically. Probably whenever I need to detox writing angst, sadness, and death for between the crosses.


	2. Blake, NO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the morning after

Tom wakes with the most horrendous headache. He is aware it is a horrendous headache because the first thing he hears is the shriek of his brother’s awful ringtone blaring in his ear and it sets off a chain reaction of pain, pain, and more pain all through every nerve of his head. Especially once he opens his eyes and the light blinds him. It adds a new layer of pain, pain, and horrible pain to the mix.

Blearily, he searches for it. It must be nearby -- ah, it’s plugged into the wall. He wrenches it free and answers the call. 

“What,” he whispers. “Joe this hurts so much, oh my god. Why are you calling me.”

“Where the hell are you?” Joe demands. “I’ve gotten five calls from people last night saying they got my number from you and that you told them to call it for ‘the fittest bloke this side of the Atlantic.’ I am going to kill you.”

“Uhhhh,” Tom says. He cracks his eyes open again. He sees -- in the brief glimpse before he slams them shut again -- that he is lying on a futon that has been pulled out flat, in a room he doesn’t recognise. There’s a small desk in one corner with a laptop on it and a potted plant that looks like it’s dying.

But most significantly . . . 

_ The other half of the futon has been slept in. _

Oh,  _ fuck _ yes. 

“Joe,” Tom croaks, managing to inject a note of triumph into his speech. “Joe, I totally scored last night.”

“And how is that supposed to make me being harassed better?” his brother wants to know.

There’s a noise somewhere behind Tom’s head. He dares to crack open his eyes again and looks to see what it is.

He is in the living room, he realises, because there is a tiny kitchen behind his head. And in that tiny kitchen, there is a very tall man. Tom can’t tell much because the man has his back turned to him, but Tom  _ can _ tell that this man is a serious man. He’s wearing a button-down shirt tucked into khakis.

“Joe,” Tom hisses in shock. Wow, he really remembers  _ none of last night. _ “Joe, it’s a dude.”

“Congratulations,” Joe says, completely unimpressed. 

“No,” says the man, who still hasn’t turned around. “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong impression.”

_ Oh shit he overheard my conversation. _ “Oh, uh,” Tom searches for something to say that isn’t absolutely daft. “Er, how so?”

The man turns around. He’s plain-looking, proper English pale with a proper English face. He’s holding a plate of toast and a glass of water. “I found you outside the student center in a bush,” he replies. “Blake, right? Your phone was dead and you couldn’t remember where you were supposed to be, so I just took you home instead. Would you like some coffee?” 

“He’s offering me coffee. We totally banged,” Tom whispers to his brother as the man puts the plate and glass on the counter. 

Joe sighs, exasperated. “Stop overestimating your game while you’re pissed,” he says, annoyance clear. “And stop passing out my phone number at parties!”

“But --” Too late; Joe hangs up. 

“I’m Schofield,” the man says, rummaging in some cupboards and politely pretending not to notice Blake making stupid faces at his phone. “You should drink that water, by the way.”

“Er, thanks,” Tom says. There’s a bar stool to sit at; he wobbles over to it and tries not to think about how unsettled his stomach feels. As he sits, Schofield makes a pleased little exclamation and pulls out a bottle of paracetamol. 

“Here,” he says, offering it to Tom. “Two should be fine. And did you want coffee? I have some tea around here somewhere if you’d rather, but I’m already brewing a second pot for myself, so.”

“Coffee’s fine,” Tom says, seizing the paracetamol. Ah, sweet relief! He pops two and downs the water. Like magic, he starts feeling better even if he knows that logically it can’t possibly work that fast.

“Eat that toast,” Schofield says from over his shoulder. He’s setting some coffee on to brew in some sort of coffee machine. As it starts percolating, it smells rather nauseating. Tom ignores it -- that’s just a side effect of this incredible hangover. He spots a knife and a butter dish, plus a little jar of jam -- he swiftly spreads butter and some jam to the toast and applies himself to it with gusto. It tastes delicious.

His plate is empty by the time Schofield has pulled out two mugs and a box of sugar. The man obviously notices but doesn’t comment -- and this is when Tom puts together the fact the guy is clearly sharing a one-bedroom apartment with someone who has rented him the living room and also the fact that he’s offering something as filling and cheap as toast to a  _ complete stranger _ and realises: this guy is broke as fuck. Tom is being an ass.

“So,” he says, taking the mug and does his best to turn the conversation. “I’m guessing . . . we did not have sex last night.”

Schofield twitches, very slightly. “No,” he says. “You puked on my shoes.”

Tom winces. Party foul, indeed. “Er, sorry about that,” he stammers out.

Schofield waves him off. “Just make sure you don’t get so drunk next time,” he says. A sense of very, very dry humor creeps into the next bit, though: “At least, not before one in the morning.”

“One in the morning??”

Tom was wrong. This is even worse than he could have possibly imagined.  _ How did he get so drunk before one in the fucking morning?? _

Tom vows never to speak of this again. Such shame is not to be borne. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in honor of my irl bff bc she just woke up with a killer hangover for the first time in forever. Happy quarantine (and HOMESTUCK) to all y'all


	3. BlAKe.

Two weekends and one day later, Will finds himself once again approaching the tiny snack shop in the student center with holy dread. He has two essays due in two days (one and half now, since it’s past midnight) and rehearsals all afternoon tomorrow -- wait, today. Coffee. He needs coffee. He needs coffee and the ability to give a fuck.

The door to the shop glows in front of him, promising heavenly respite. If he can just . . . make it . . . not that it’s hard, he’s just tired. So tired. And he really needs coffee.

Success! He throws open the door.  _ At last, _ floats through his head, a snippit of song from . . . wherever.  _ My love has come along. _ Or, in this case, a hot, caffeinated beverage.

Lauri looks up from a beat-up single-subject notebook covered in scribbles when he comes in. Looks like French, probably. Will nods to it. “Burning the midnight oil?” he asks. 

She nods seriously. “We have a huge test today,” she says, accent as lovely as she is. “I know I don’t need them memorized, but it always makes me feel more prepared.”

Will nods with agreement. He’s pretty sure he’s done something like back in undergrad, when he had to cram for some Biology course. Ugh, General Ed courses. 

“Coffee?” she asks him, setting the notebook aside.

“Yes, please,” he says, cash already in hand. “I’ve two essays due tomorrow and no time later today.”

She shakes her head as she gets out a paper cup and starts pouring a cup from the unusually shiny industrial coffee dispenser. “This isn’t healthy, you know,” she says reproachfully. 

Will shrugs. “I can sleep when I’ve got my degree,” he says. 

She laughs as she hands it to him. “Be careful,” she warns him. “We just got a new machine recently and it’s been coming out very hot, okay?”

Will completes the transaction and is soon in possession of a blissfully-hot hit of guaranteed focus. He carries it out, taking off the lid to savor the aroma as he goes. It’s like the smell alone helps lift some of the weight off his eyelids. 

\--which is, of course, when someone walks right into him. Will yelps and steps back, trying hard to compensate, but it’s too late: hot coffee slops over his hand. His  _ left _ hand. Lauri was right -- it is  _ very hot. _

“Shit!” he bites out, already knowing it’s going to burn. He painfully transfers the cup to his right hand and shakes his left, hard, trying to get the excess coffee  _ off; _ he can’t even begin to imagine how painful playing with his hand like this is going to be in the morning. Fuck.

“Sorry mate,” someone slurs. Someone  _ familiar _ slurs. Someone familiar, who is reaching out to help steady Will and mostly is managing to drag Will slowly to the side. Will blinks at him, still partially blind from leaving the relative brightness of the snack shop -- but the features resolve into the painfully earnest, painfully familiar face of Blake. 

“This is the  _ second _ time you’ve made me spill my coffee,” Will tells him, already annoyed. He hasn’t seen the guy since that awkward morning wake up over a week ago, but already, Will has the sinking feeling that he knows where this is going.

Blake squints at him, obviously pissed. His face breaks into a beaming grin. “Scho!” he cries, and claps Will haphazardly on the back. Will stumbles a little and very nearly spills what is left of his coffee all over his right hand, too. “Mate, I’ve been looking for you!”

“What? Why?” Will . . . should probably put his hand under a tap instead of be getting alarmed over Blake’s obvious enthusiasm at finding him. “Here, c’mon. I need to rinse my hand off.”

Blake follows him, holding onto Will’s shoulder like he will fall over if he doesn’t. Seeing how unsteady the boy is, Will honestly wouldn’t be surprised. “I missed you,” Blake informs him seriously. “We had so much fun last time. You should come with me to a party. The party would’ve been sooooooo much better if you were there.”

“What do you mean last time was so much fun? You threw up all over my shoes. Twice. We didn’t even do anything, I took you home to sleep it off,” Will tells him, ducking back into the shop. Lauri looks up, surprised.

“I’m so sorry, but can I run my hand under your sink in the back?” Will asks her, feeling frazzled already. “This one walked into me and knocked my coffee all over it.”

Lauri’s hand flies to her mouth. “Mon Dieu! Of course,” she says immediately. She hurries over to the little gate set in the counter and lifts it for him, beckoning him through.

“Stay here,” Will tells Blake sternly, and parks him next to the gate. “Don’t move, and try not to vomit.”

“I promise,” Blake says with great solemnity, blinking at him like an owl. 

Lauri helps him in the back, turning on the tap for him and offering him paper towels. She hisses with sympathy when the extent of the burn is revealed: a long scald down the back of his hand, right over the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. It’s going to make those extensions into fifth position bloody hell come rehearsal.

“I’m so sorry,” she says constantly. “I’m so sorry, I should have checked that lid and made sure it was on tight enough --”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Will assures her. “I took it off myself -- the fault is mine. Don’t worry about it, truly.”

When Will reemerges from the back with Lauri, who is still fussing about him not letting her bandage it with the shop’s first aid kit, Blake is poking at bags of chips and closely examining the bins of pick ‘n mix. “Is this any good, Scho?” he asks. “It looks like it’d be good, but I dunno. Seems a bit expensive.”

Lauri gives Will a very confused look. Will rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what he’s going on about either,” he murmurs to her. “But anyway, thank you -- really, I appreciate it.” 

“Come on, where are you going tonight?” Will asks Blake, then, waving goodbye to a doubtful Lauri. Blake latches back on like a limpet, fingers hooked into the fancy loops of Will’s jacket’s shoulders. 

“Anywhere,” Blake says, cheerfully.

“No,” Will says, taking stock once they’re outside. The scald is frightfully painful but it has eased significantly since running it under the tap, thank goodness. “I mean, are you lost again? Where do you need to go? Where’s home?” 

“I’m not lost, I’m at the student center,” Blake rebukes him. 

“Yes, but are you supposed to be?”

“I dunno.”

Will sighs and restrains himself from shaking the boy with great difficulty. “Why are you this drunk again?”

“Why not?” Blake is very pleased with himself for turning the question around in such a fashion. Will feels old. 

“It’s Tuesday,” he says.

“So?”

“It’s the middle of the week. Why are you drinking this much in the middle of the week?”

“Cause everyone else was doing it, I guess,” Blake says with a shrug that sets him to swaying alarmingly. “But but but! It’s a good thing, see? Look! I found you again!”

Will has the deeply unsettling impression that he has been imprinted upon. Like that thing that ducklings do with their mothers? That’s Blake. Blake is a duckling.

“Well look, let’s get you home,” Will says persuasively. “I’ve got work I need to do still, but you can’t be roaming around like this . . . ”

Blake gives him, Will swears to God, the best damn impression of a puppy he’s ever seen on a human being. “I can’t stay with you?”

“Blake,” Will says warningly.

“Scho,” Blake says back.

“Look,” Will says, compromising. “Give me your phone. We’ll call your flatmates, see if they can pick you up --”

“No! I’m not that drunk.”

“Yes, you are.” 

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re about to fall over,” Will observes practically. “And you would’ve already if you weren’t hanging off of me.”

“No, I’m always like this,” Blake lies immediately. “It’s a . . . it’s a . . . a medical condition. Like arthritis.” 

“Uh-huh. Give me your phone.”

“No!”

And it’s stupid -- Will  _ knows _ it’s stupid -- but they literally get into a wrestling match over the damn phone. Will manages to wrest it away from Blake just in time for Blake to get very, very pale, and throw up -- fortunately, not on Will this time, but into the bushes. 

“Right,” Will says, supporting the boy through it. “Let it all out. There you go . . . ”

When he’s finished, Will props him up against a bench. “What’s your password?” he asks, fingers poised over the numerical keypad. 

“Um,” Blake says, nonplussed. “Um. Er. I know that, I swear I do.”

“What’s your birthday?”

“September 7th,” Blake answers immediately. Will types in 0709 and the phone screen unlocks. He finds the contacts and starts sifting through them, and finds himself at a complete and total loss.

None of them have actual names. They’re all stupid nicknames. Three people are listed as “arsehole” with varying degrees of capitalisation, and one “arsehole brother;” the rest are gibberish. 

“Which one should I call?” Will asks Blake. Blake gives him a confused look. When Will shows him the screen, Blake just shakes his head. “Oh no, don’t call them, they’re all wankers. Don’t call them.”

“Well,” Will says after a moment. “How about your brother?”

“Oh, Joe?” Blake brightens. “Oh, do you want his number? He’s really fit, like, super fit. And he’s very nice too but like.” Blake looks around and leans closer.  _ “He needs to get laid,” _ he stage-whispers.

“Right,” Will says hastily, trying to forestall whatever inane thing Blake is going to say next. “Right, er, no. Thank you.” He selects “arsehole brother” and hits call.

This is where his luck runs out, though; no one picks up. Will leaves a short message just so that the guy doesn’t wonder why Tom was calling at two in the morning and hangs up.

“Right,” he says again. It’s been a good half-hour trying to manage this; faced with the prospect of painstakingly going through the contacts list and trying to track down Blake’s flatmates without his assistance, Will mentally throws in the towel. He got to taste none of his coffee and he is dragging. And with the scald, maybe he can beg off rehearsal . . . he can do his work then, instead . . . “All right,” he says, giving in to the (apparently) inevitable. “All right. You’re coming home with me for now.”

“‘Kay,” Blake says sleepily.

“And in the morning, you are giving me your address and your phone number,” Will says firmly. “So that this  _ won’t happen again.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOOOOOOOOO HIS HAND WILL BE INFECTED AND HE WILL DIE-- wait this is a modern-day college AU. Never mind.


End file.
